


Thorn in My Side

by ladyspock7



Category: Gotham (TV)
Genre: Drunken Confessions, Drunken Flirting, Flirting on Jim's Side Anyway, Jim Grovels, M/M, Oswald is a Badass, Pining, Unresolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-05-05
Updated: 2019-04-27
Packaged: 2019-05-02 13:11:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 9,416
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14545473
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ladyspock7/pseuds/ladyspock7
Summary: Set in season 3. Jim finds Oswald hidden away in a rundown bar and tries to see if the old fire can be rekindled.





	1. Chapter 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Set in season 3. Jim finds Oswald in a rundown bar and tries to see if the old fire can be rekindled.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for homohobic jerky characters at the end.

When Jim walked into his latest watering hole and saw Mayor Cobblepot sitting at one of the booths he skidded, almost tripped over his own feet and banged his knee against the door.

Cobblepot and several other people in the bar looked up at the racket.

This was too much. Where could a guy go to find some peace and quiet in this town? He couldn't visit any of the bars he actually liked because too many cops drank there, and he didn't want to run into Harvey or anyone else he knew.

Jim hesitated, leaning against the door, ready to push out again into the freezing wind.

Oswald stared, holding the shot glass in a pale hand. For a moment the air hung heavy with tension.

Then Oswald turned away, deliberately directing his gaze to the wall, his lips pressed together in a thin line.

Jim clenched his teeth and the old familiar roiling of guilt soured his stomach along with an irrational dose of resentment. So easily dismissed? Why should he care? Just because Oswald used to practically worship the ground he walked on.

Just because maybe Oswald was one of the few people who actually did care about him. Or used to care, before Jim turned his back on him in a misguided attempt to cleanse his own soul.

Just because he didn't want to go back to that dreary apartment, especially since Valerie wouldn't be dropping by anymore.

Just because...

Jim stepped back into the bar and walked across the room to Oswald's booth.

Oswald watched him, warily. His infamous bird-headed cane lay on the table, and his hand twitched, as if he was thinking about getting up and walking out.

Or, Jim reminded himself, Oswald might be thinking about drawing the knife hidden in the handle.

Harvey sometimes bitched about that, how Jim never seemed to worry Oswald might go berserk and attack him if he didn't watch it.

Certainly Oswald had little reason to like him these days, but Jim wasn't getting that kind of vibe, not even now, despite all that had passed between them.

Oswald's face fell, and he shrunk a little more into his seat. He drew his hand back under the table.

Jim was pretty sure Oswald had a gun hidden on him somewhere, too, but at least it looked like possible stabbings were on hold.

Maybe Jim was too cavalier about his own safety, or maybe he really did have a big old blind spot in regards to Oswald like Harvey said, but he felt more determined than ever to sit for a spell.

Jim paused by the bar to order a scotch, neat, before covering the remaining distance to Oswald's booth. “Mind if I sit down?”

Several emotions flickered over Oswald's face until he managed to settle on a mask of indifference. He shrugged, such an obvious attempt at casualness Jim almost smiled. “It's a free country.”

Jim slid into the opposite seat and there was a little silence. “No offense, but this doesn't seem like the kind of place the mayor would hang out in.”

Especially a mayor who'd recently landed an enormous family fortune. That piece of news hadn't escaped Jim's notice, but it didn't seem very tactful to point that out, seeing how his newly discovered father died in order for him to inherit.

Oswald wore an old black suit that must have been from his days as Fish Mooney's lackey, but he wasn't wearing a tie, Jim noticed with mild shock. For Oswald this was downright sloppy, for all that his hair was slicked back and behaving itself, just like it was in the election posters still littering some of the streets and alleys.

Oswald's lips stretched back in a brief, humorless smile. “I refer you back to my earlier statement about the freedoms we enjoy as citizens of this fine land.” He knocked back the rest of his drink, exposing the long lines of his neck, which probably thrilled Jim a little too much, and poured out another from the bottle at his elbow.

Jim lifted his glass and watched him over the rim. He wondered how long it would take for that fake tan to wear off. Oswald looked okay with it, it must have been applied professionally, but Jim found he missed the freckles.

Oswald lifted his hand and let it fall again. “If you must know, I used to come here back in the day when I needed to get away from the club for a while. Good place to sit and be left alone.”

He raised his voice ever so slightly to emphasize the last word.

Jim refused to take the hint. If Oswald really wanted him to go, he better come out and say it. “Yep,” he said, nodding. “That's why I come here. Something on your mind?”

Oswald studied him as if calculating his next move. Then, reaching a decision, he leaned his arms on the table. “You first.”

\- - - - 

Jim told him about Lee's new beau, whoever the hell he was, and after some hesitation, talked about Valerie Vale.

Oswald propped his chin in his hand. “Poor Jim. Must be so tiresome, having all these gorgeous women cluttering up the landscape.”

“Only one,” Jim muttered. “And she's always in a hurry to leave.” It was a little disconcerting, the speed with which Valerie got dressed in the morning, smiling brightly the entire time as if nothing they'd done the night before mattered any more than sharing a drink.

He flicked his hand. “Anyway. We had a fight. Something stupid. I don't think she's coming back.”

Maybe it was for the best. It was a dumb argument over where they'd get take-out which escalated, and she stormed out. If the relationship was so shaky it couldn't survive that, what was the point? Relationship was probably too strong a word for what amounted to a series of one night stands.

Jim tapped a finger on the table, wondering about Oswald's moroseness. He was a lot less talkative than usual. Beyond mildly sarcastic comments about Jim's love life, he hadn't said very much.

Jim was seized with an urge to reach over and ruffle up his hair, just to see what he would do.

He restrained himself, barely. That would be bad. Maybe Oswald didn't even feel that way about him anymore. Jim wasn't so vain as to think Oswald would pine after him forever.

But maybe he was still pining. Jim wondered if he should find out.

Well, why not? Wasn't like he was with the GCPD anymore, and here Oswald went and got to be an elected public official, which, when not looked at too closely, was fairly respectable. Harvey wasn't there to criticize.

Jim wiped his mouth with his hand reached for the bottle. “Your turn. Anybody special?” he asked, trying to sound casual and gruff, but secretly he was hoping there wasn't. Maybe there wasn't anybody. Maybe...maybe Jim could be that somebody...

Oswald's gaze sharpened on Jim in alarm before sliding away again. He worked his jaw, pursed his lips, rubbed his neck, gritted his teeth, and gave an overall impression of invisible forces rampaging through his soul.

He exhaled heavily and, having put a lid on his inner demons, gave Jim a thin smile. He turned his glass in a little circle. “There...is somebody. But he doesn't know.”

 _Yeah, right. Like I didn't notice the way your eyes lit up whenever you saw me._ “Sure about that?”

Oswald shrugged in a helpless way that made Jim want to hug him. “He likes women, I know that much.”

“Maybe he's bi.” He downed the rest of his drink too quickly. The alcohol was buzzing in his brain pretty strong now. “You should talk to him. Tell him how you feel. Who knows?”

“I suppose,” Oswald murmured.

Jim's heart beat faster as he watched Oswald out of the corner of his eyes, but the other man didn't seem to be in any hurry to pour out his heart and confess.

Disappointing, but Jim understood. _I've ignored him and pushed him away so much he doesn't dare make the first move._

Oswald knocked back another shot and pulled his face into a grimace. Jim wondered how many he'd had and where the hell he was putting it all.

“And then the whole Red Hood fiasco makes it even more complicated,” Oswald said, sounding more like his old bitchy self.

Jim nodded, mystified by the sudden change in topic. He heard about the 'hit,' if it could even be called that, on the statue of Oswald's mother, though what it had to do with Oswald's continuing crush on him, he couldn't say. Cleary it upset Oswald, though, so best let him talk.

The whole story came pouring out, although Oswald had to explain it several times before Jim's increasingly sauced brain was able to latch onto the key concepts.

“So. Hold it.” Jim swayed and grabbed onto the table. “Butch was really the...the ringleader of the Red Hoods. And told them to shoot it up.”

“Correct.” Oswald dipped his head. “It was a.... a watchmacallit. A thingy.” His forehead wrinkled with the effort of thinking. “A ploy. That's the word. Butch was trying to get back into my good graces. Manufacturing a threat so he could be the hero.” He tried to snap his fingers but missed. The booze was finally starting to have an effect.

“And Ed found out.”

“Again, bingo.”

“Only he didn't tell you. He went to Zsasz. And then...he...” Jim struggled to remember what came next. He waved an unsteady hand in the air. Screw Ed Nygma anyway, that murdering son of a bitch.

“What happened again?” Some kind of incredibly complicated series of double-crosses occurred, with Zsasz getting involved somehow, and Ed came out on top. In his current state, Jim was finding it difficult to follow the twists and turns.

“Oh, I don't know. I can't remember.” Oswald lay his head on his arms. “The upshot is ever'body stabs me in the back. Ever'body.”

Jim, awash in sympathy, patted him on the shoulder. “But, you figured it out, right?”

“Yeah,” Oswald muttered into the table. He sniffled.

“Hard to put one over on the Penguin,” Jim said, feeling a little frantic. He patted him again. Was he crying? He couldn't stand it if Oswald started crying.

“I guess.” Oswald lifted his head and quickly wiped his eyes. “Something just...just... didn't smell right. It was too neat. So I made my own inquiries.” His mouth twisted. “Ed's cleverness, impressive. I was so... stupidly grateful. And he played me. Turned Butch against me. The best henchman I ever had, now he's gone. Drove him back to that skank Tabitha.”

He shook his head vigorously, and squeezed his eyes shut, grimacing. “Ow. Isn't the hangover supposed to start tomorrow? I can't trust Ed anymore. I don't know what I...” His face scrunched up. “No one's on my side.”

Jim almost felt like crying, too. He got up unsteadily and flopped into the seat next to him, putting his arms around his shoulders. “I'm on your side. Look, right here. By your side.”

Oswald stared at him, tears making tracks down his cheeks, and began to shake with laughter. “Right next to me,” he said.

Jim grinned and gave him a little shake. “Yep, by your side. That is known as a pun, or play on words.”

Oswald hiccuped and laughed some more. “You wouldn't happen to have a handkerchief on you, perchance?”

This close, Oswald's scent was a pleasant mix of cologne and hair gel. There was something pleasing about the way he fitted against Jim's side, too, the way Oswald sort of leaned into him, as if soaking up warmth.

Jim made a show of patting at his own pockets with one hand. His other hand, slid down Oswald's arm and came to rest on his waist. Real casual-like.

“Must've left it in my other suit.” He rummaged around the debris on the table, and found a mostly intact napkin.

Oswald wiped at his eyes with it and took a shuddering breath. “Other suit, huh? So this,” he said, poking Jim's black shirt with his finger, “you call this a suit?”

“Standard issue for bounty hunters. Yeah.” He let his hand tighten on Oswald's waist, just a little, and his fingertips moved a little lower to find the top of Oswald's hip, right at the curve of the hipbone.

Blood pulsed in his ears. He felt good. Warmth pooled in his belly and he was seized with an increasingly powerful urge to cup Oswald's jaw and kiss those lips made rosy with drink.

Oswald glanced down, finally noticing where Jim's hand had strayed. His smile faded and he stopped laughing.

He turned his face to Jim, eyes wide and still shiny with tears.

Jim was pulled in, as if by magnets, and he put his mouth on Oswald's, as gently as...

Oswald put a hand on his chest and pushed him back. “What're you doing?”

Jim blinked at him.

“I have to go,” Oswald said in a strangled voice. “Ed must be worried about me.”

“Who the fuck cares?” Jim snapped, too harsh, too belligerent. “Don't know why you made him campaign manager. Doesn't surprise me he played you, that backstabbing little....” Words failed him for a drunken moment. “Backstabber!”

Oswald's eyes were big as dinner plates. “You happen to be talking about the man I love,” he said in a cold voice.

Jim gaped at him.

“Let me out.” Oswald shoved at his shoulder.

Jim, bewildered, clumsy, began to slide out of the booth.

It wasn't fast enough for Oswald. He pushed Jim again and attempted to climb over him in his haste.

“Hey, wait,” Jim said. “Let me stand up first, let me get out of the...”

There was a confused pile-up for a moment, and then Jim staggered upright while Oswald shot out of the seat and limped toward the door.

Jim stared after him, then caught up to him about halfway across the room, seizing him by the wrist. “Wait. Oswald. Give me a second. Please.”

Oswald trembled, keeping his face set toward the door. “You're seriously doing this to me now. Really? Where were you six months ago?”

Jim's throat went dry, guilt over abandoning Oswald in Arkham almost overwhelming, but that wasn't the issue now. He could stand here stammering apologies, or he could warn him.

He licked his lips, desperate to make Oswald understand. Edward Nygma was vile, murdering his girlfriend, framing Jim and sending him to Blackgate. Ed couldn't be trusted. Ed would hurt Oswald, he just knew it.

“You can't be in love with Ed,” he said, knowing it was a mistake as soon as the words were out. “He's a killer.”

Oswald's head snapped around and he glared at him. “So what's your point?”

Jim looked into his eyes, wanting him to understand.

“He'll hurt you,” he said. “I would never hurt you.”

Oswald tensed, the cords of his neck standing out. “Too late,” he said hoarsely. Yanking his arm out of Jim's grasp, he slammed out the door.  
Jim was left standing alone.

Through his drunken fog he became hyper aware of the rest of the bar.

People were either trying to ignore them or were watching them out of the corners of their eyes. Three men seated near the door stared openly, hostility in their faces. They'd turned to watch Oswald leave.

This was a bad place for two men to be having that kind of argument.

Jim should have known better, should never have kissed Oswald here.

He shot a glare at the assholes by the door, and reached under his jacket, to let them know he was armed. “What're you lookin' at?” he growled.

He was laying it on too thick, and his tough guy stance didn't seem to impress them much, but it would have to do. Did they even recognize the mayor? They didn't look like they cared much about politics, but Oswald's face was all over town.

Jim hurried out.

At the very least he would make sure Oswald got home safely.

But...he said something about Ed being worried. Was Ed staying at the mansion? That wouldn't be safe, in Jim's opinion, but he couldn't very well kidnap Oswald to prevent him from going back to his own home.

Frustrated, he scanned the street, the chill wind cutting through his jacket. Several pedestrians walked or staggered by, but he didn't see Oswald anywhere.

Where the hell did he go? He could move pretty fast when he had to, even without his cane.

Oh crap. Oswald forgot it.

He lurched a few steps back to the bar, then turned to face the street again, going around in an unsteady circle. He ought to find Oswald first.

At last he spotted him getting into a taxi half a block away.

He ran toward it, calling out, but it sped off.

Jim leaned on his knees and hung his head. Damn it, damn it, damn it.

_What did I expect, for Oswald to lust after me forever?_

But Edward Nygma! That galled him, made him clench his fists, sent dread snaking through his body.

It was just wrong. It just was.

Jim was being irrational, greedy, hypocritical, and above all selfish, but he didn't care.

Despair welled up inside him. There was nothing he could do about it. If Oswald was over him, that was that. The thing to do would be to get the cane and bring it to city hall tomorrow.

Jim straightened up, running his hands through his hair.

When he turned around, the three men from the bar were standing in front of him. And not in a friendly way. One of them held Oswald's cane.

“Your boyfriend forgot this,” he said, grinning. “You want it?”

The others giggled nastily. “Yeah, he wants it. Wants it bad, don't he?”

“You heard him in there.”

“Wants to suck it.”

Oh, great. Jim scowled as they spread out to surround him.

“Giving you one chance to back off,” he said in a low voice, reaching under his jacket. His hand might not be too steady, but sight of the gun would...

A movement from behind made him whirl, but, worse for drink, he was too slow.

The club of a fourth man caught him a sharp blow across his lower back and down he went, agony blossoming like an inferno.

He lost his grip on the gun. Someone kicked it away. Then kicked him in the ribs.

 _Where the fuck did the fourth one come from?_ Jim thought as he fought for breath and they closed in.


	2. Chapter 2

  
Oswald dropped heavily into the none-too-clean back seat of the cab and told the address to the driver.

The driver pulled away from the curb, but kept glancing in the rearview mirror. “You the mayor? Hey, you are, aren't you?”

“Yes,” Oswald said, rubbing his temples.

“Wow, wait'll I tell the missus! I voted for you. She voted for ya, too!”

Despite his inner turmoil, Oswald felt an official smile gamely try to surface. “Thank you very much. Now if you don't mind, I've had a very long night.”

Oswald sagged into the aging vinyl, Jim's words replaying on a hellish memory loop.

'You can't love Ed,' what sheer, unmitigated arrogance! As if Jim had any right to tell him what to feel, what to do, who to love. Or whom. Whatever the fucking pronoun was.

'He's a killer,' Jim said, well, no shit, who the hell did Jim think he was talking to? As if Oswald were squeaky-clean. Wasn't Jim paying attention?

And the real kicker, 'I won't hurt you.'

_You just did, you bastard, you hurt me just now when you sprang that kiss on me out of the blue, after months of scorn and dismissal. It was so obvious that you were only thinking of...of..._

He didn't know what Jim had been thinking of.

Getting off on seeing how far he could push it? Soothing his wounded pride over getting dumped? Because Oswald was smitten, Oswald would be easy, Oswald was a doormat.

He'd long ago given up expecting anything from Jim, though he would have settled for simple common courtesy, that would have been nice.

His throat closed up and tears stung his eyes. The feel of Jim's warm body pressed to his side and his arm around his shoulders remained. The hand that slipped down to Oswald's waist. And the other hand, Jim's strong, gentle hand, tilting Oswald's head toward him, the touch of his lips.

The worst part was, by far the worst part, was that if Jim had done that even a few weeks ago, Oswald would have been putty in his hands. Maybe if there had been a little warning, some kind of goddamn hint, maybe Oswald might have enjoyed it. How long had he fantasized about Jim Gordon doing exactly that, of taking Oswald into his arms.

It was infuriating, how easily Jim destroyed the defenses Oswald took such pains to build.

He wiped at his eyes. At least his bad leg was behaving itself, he hadn't needed to take any pain pills since yesterday.

He stiffened with a sudden foreboding, and put his hand out, but found nothing on the seat beside him. The cane wasn't on the floor at his feet, either. He must have left it in the bar.

Damn it.

“Go back,” he said to the cabbie. “I forgot something.” With any luck Jim would have gone by now, but even if he were still lurking, Oswald would have to retrieve it.

The cab made an illegal u-turn. A minute later the driver said, “Looks like trouble, Mr. Mayor.”

Oswald leaned forward to look through the windshield without much interest, wondering if it'd be difficult to get back into the bar.

A knot of combatants rocked back and forth under a streetlight.

Not really a fight so much as a beat-down, in Oswald's opinion, four against one. In fact, the guy in the middle of the scrum looked like....

Oh no.

Honestly, that man could get into a brawl in a convent!

He gasped as one of the attackers hefted a length of wood behind Jim, but Jim turned and managed to seize the man's arm before he brought it down.

Then the driver hit the gas and Oswald fell back in his seat.

He scrambled to look through the back, but he couldn't see the fight anymore. The buildings closed in.

Oswald shouted, “That's my stop! Go back!”

“I can't stop there, Mr. Mayor! It's not safe. I tell ya, there's fights breakin' out every night, almost. I got a cell phone here if you want to call the bar to look for your...”

Oswald yanked his Beretta out of the holster and slammed his hand on the seat. “Turn this crate around right now!”

The driver glanced over his shoulder and his eyes bulged at the sight of the gun. The cab made another u-turn, tires squealing, and roared back down the block.

Oswald adjusted his grip, hot rage boiling at his core, the part of him that Professor Strange tried to sever, the fury that made him reach for the nearest weapon to paint the walls red. He'd kept it in check throughout the election campaign and it was good and fresh.

The cab screeched to a halt against the curb. Oswald exited, gun at the ready.

One of the attackers sat on the ground with his arms wrapped around his middle and the wood he'd used as a club lying next to him. The others had Jim back against the brick wall of the bar, two men on either side holding his arms while the third man screamed obscenities in his face.

Oswald's jaw clenched. Those were some _very_ nasty slurs. It was clear what kind of bashing was going on.

The thug struck Jim across the face with the cane, following it up with a blow to the stomach. Jim coughed, blood spattering out of his mouth, and sagged in the grip of his captors, his face contorting.

Cold knifed down Oswald's back. They would pay for that.

He stood sideways so the gun was hidden by his body.

“Hey!” he shouted.

They looked up.

“I believe that's my cane,” Oswald said.

The men glanced at each other, and let Jim slide from their grasp.

First objective reached. Got them to stop hitting Jim.

Smirking, they advanced on Oswald in a loose group, one of them limping badly. The fourth one got slowly to his feet but didn't seem very interested in joining the proceedings. Jim had gotten in some good hits.

Oswald spared a quick glance for Jim. He was slumped over, but he turned his head to see what was happening. Conscious, always a good thing. Oswald didn't like how the fourth attacker was standing so close to Jim, but it shouldn't matter soon.

The cane-wielder grinned, swaggering with the posture of a bully who thought he had the upper hand. “This yours? You must want it bad." He made an extremely rude gesture with it. His buddies snickered.

“That is so funny. You must be a big hit at parties.” Oswald flashed his teeth. “Tell you what...” He raised the gun.

At once every smile was wiped away.

The blood sang through Oswald's veins. He loved this part, where the bastards realized that Oswald held all the cards. “Put it down and I'll show you how it's meant to be used.”

The man let the cane clatter to the sidewalk.

“Thank you,” Oswald said, and shot him in the shoulder, then the thigh.

The others rabbited. He got another one in the side, but missed the one ducking into the alley. Damn it, he really was drunk, his aim was terrible.

He spun to look for the fourth man, and spotted him sprinting between parked cars and into the street. He took aim, but then a car braked hard with a screech and ran into him, sending him flying over the hood.

Oswald scowled at the spot where the man he'd shot in the side should have been lying. Stumbling footsteps disappeared down the alley. Must have just grazed him. Well, he would track him down in a minute.

He ran his gaze around the street to see if anyone would be stupid enough to play hero, but the pedestrians, who had already dispersed to avoid the beating, were even scarcer now that the gun had made an appearance.

Nonetheless, several faces peered around corners and doorways, to see if anything else interesting would happen. That was the Gotham way. Run from danger, but not too far, because you might miss the show.

Oswald's first victim lay on the sidewalk, feebly clutching at his wounds. He took one look at Oswald's face and made a spirited attempt to crawl away.

Oswald stalked closer, clicking the safety catch on the Beretta and holstering it. He bent over to scoop up his mishandled cane.

“Oh, don't leave yet,” he said brightly. “I have to show you how the cane works.” He touched the catch and the knife slid out with a satisfying _sssnick_.

The man made a thin animal noise and tried to crawl faster, trailing blood.

Two swift steps and Oswald tossed aside the cane, seized the man's short hair, and pulled his head back, bringing the knife down...

“Oswald, don't!” Jim croaked. Still doubled over, he kept one hand on the crumbling brick. His eyes were wide and pleading. “He's down. All right? He's down. You don't have to.”

Oswald glared at his whimpering victim. A thin line of blood showed against the man's throat, along the knife edge.

He lifted the knife away. “Very well, Jim. If it makes you feel better.” He shoved the man's head down and wiped his hand on his suit jacket, curling his lip with distaste. The man's hair was greasy.

Footsteps crept up from behind.

Oswald whirled, face hard, knife at gut-level.

The cab driver threw his hands in the air. “It's me, mayor, it's me!”

The knife quivered an inch from the driver's belly. “Oh. So it is.” Oswald took out his handkerchief and wiped the blade. “Could we trouble you for a lift?”

After retrieving Jim's gun from under a parked car, the driver helped load him into the cab.

\- - - - -

Oswald thought Jim should see a doctor. He knew of a few doctors on the mob payroll who could be trusted to keep their mouths shut, but he didn't think Jim would agree to submit to an examination from them, and Jim balked at being taken to a hospital. Emergency rooms were often crowded and the wait could be considerable. Jim insisted nothing was broken, and at last they went back to Jim's apartment.

There was a tense silence. Oswald wondered how long it would be before Jim's tiresome scolding started. Resentment and frustration and dread sloshed around in his stomach along with the liquor. He thought he might be physically ill.

Jim stirred. Oswald braced for the onslaught of criticism. Jim never appreciated his efforts.

“Thanks for coming back,” Jim said quietly.

Oswald exhaled heavily, his anger draining out of him, though he clutched at the last shreds of it in self-defense. Jim could be so irritating, so predictable most of the time. And then he had to ruin Oswald's bad mood by being polite.

“Had to retrieve my cane,” he muttered.

Oswald paid the driver handsomely for his silence as well as for the transportation. “If the police come by asking questions, you didn't see anything, you didn't hear anything, and you most definitely didn't give me or my friend a ride anywhere.” 

It seemed only natural to see that Jim got some rudimentary care, so when Jim hobbled down the steps to his apartment, Oswald followed.

Jim took two bags of peas out of the freezer, and sat on the couch, placing one of them over his swollen eye.

Oswald braved the bathroom and found a few bandaids, gauze, antibacterial ointment, and acetaminophen. Looking down on Jim's haggard face, he saw that dirt marked a large scrape down the side of one cheek.

“Should probably clean that,” he said.

Jim opened his one good eye to look at him, then nodded slightly.

Oswald, irritated with himself at the stupid pathetic thrill he was getting from the novelty of touching Jim, concentrated on dabbing the dirt off with a damp washcloth. He could feel Jim watching him but he concentrated on the task.

“Why didn't you kill him?” Jim asked.

Oswald pressed his lips together and rubbed a little harder. Of all the questions to ask. “Hold still. This dirt is ground in.”

Jim winced at the extra scrubbing. He put his hand out and pushed the washcloth down. “Why didn't you?” he asked again, quietly.

Oswald felt his face grow hot. Damn it. He'd been expecting Jim to demand to know why the hell he'd taken such extreme measures, and had, in fact, prepared a scathing rant about the importance of sending a clear message that no one fucks with the Penguin or his friends, and no, it didn't matter that those men didn't seem to recognize him either as the Penguin or the mayor, that wasn't Oswald's problem, the message was the important thing. And then Jim has to throw a curveball like that.

Oswald lifted his shoulders and let them fall again. “Because you asked me not to. Happy? I didn't want to upset you.”

He dabbed ointment on the scrape. There were a number of other bad scrapes on his arms and hands from collisions with brick and concrete, not to mention the bruises blossoming on his torso, though there wasn't much Oswald could do about that. A skinned knee glowed red from a rip in Jim's jeans.

Jim put the larger bag of frozen peas on his bruised ribs. Oswald had a feeling these frozen vegetables would never be eaten, and were kept around purely for first aid purposes.

He was a little concerned about the blood in Jim's mouth, as a little more trickled out from between his lips, but Jim assured him it wasn't anything serious, and nothing was getting coughed up from his lungs. He still had all his teeth.

Oswald folded the washcloth into a square. “I should go. Ed's probably worried.”

“You could stay,” Jim mumbled. A bruise darkened on his jaw, making it painful for him to talk. He touched Oswald's arm. “On the couch. Because it's so late.”

Oswald felt his willpower draining away.

_I don't know why I even came in. I should have dropped him off and taken the cab home. Jim can take care of himself._

He looked at Jim's fingers resting on his sleeve. “I may not have much experience in these matters, Jim, but the word 'rebound' springs to mind.”

Jim sat back and let his head fall against the back of the couch, closing his eyes.

Oswald felt his heart sink and tried not to feel guilty. Jim was the one in the wrong here, not him.

With a flood of heat, Oswald ran his gaze over Jim and looked away quickly before he could be caught staring. Beautiful. Dogged in the pursuit of justice. Despite occasional missteps, he was determined and noble. Forthright and honest in a way that Oswald could never be. Jim just.... just fucking shone, even now, bruised and battered and his face swelling up.

Oswald crossed his arms, shoving his hands under his armpits, otherwise he'd be getting up and going to stand by Jim to cradle his head against his chest. “I should go,” he said again. “Ed must be worried.”

He didn't know why he kept saying that, as he was certain that Ed was not only completely unconcerned on the subject of Oswald's whereabouts, but was sleeping peacefully in the guest room.

Jim gingerly touched his swollen eye and readjusted the frozen peas. “Look, you're welcome to the couch. I won't bother you again. I mean, we're still friends, aren't we?”

Jim's good eye held Oswald's gaze.

Oswald just could not be cruel to that mournful, earnest expression.

“Yes, of course, James,” he said. “I'll just crash here.”

\- - - - - -

'I'll just crash here,' oh so casual.

It was only the right thing to do, Oswald thought. If only to make sure Jim didn't drown in his own vomit. He probably wasn't that drunk, but it was a useful fiction.

And it wasn't like Jim was in any shape to put the moves on him again.

Oswald lay awake. The pleasing effects of the alcohol had long since deserted him, leaving little behind but queasiness and a promise of a hair-splitting headache. He listened to Jim shift around on the bed, trying to find the least painful position. Jim's breathing seemed shallow and labored, even from the next room. He must have left the door ajar.

This was a mistake. Didn't Oswald have any pride? Apparently not.

Jim would awaken in the morning bruised and battered, sobered up, and maybe he'd resent Oswald for the beating. It wouldn't have happened except for the public tiff in the bar that attracted the attention of those homophobic jackasses.

It was ridiculous to hope that Jim would be anything other than embarrassed by his presence.

And what about Edward?

The next treacherous thought came: Well, what about him?

Oswald hugged the pillow tighter. _He helped me so much. Saved my life in the woods._

Though he'd taken a great deal, too, Oswald reflected. _I befriended him, secured his release from Arkham, gave him gainful employment. And he conned me._

Jim's no different, he thought. Only coming around when he needs something. What was this quality that caused Oswald to crave affection so badly, even of a superficial kind, that he let them walk all over him? It was only in these matters of the heart that he was so vulnerable, so incapable of protecting himself. In that much Edward was right. Love was a liability and Oswald's greatest weakness.

Oswald lay in the dark for a long time.

Jim slipped into restless sleep.

It was after four in the morning. Oswald got up, took the time to fold the blanket and left it at the foot of the couch. He put on his shoes, then picked up his belt and gun holster from the side table and buckled it on before padding across the ugly carpet toward the front door.

Even this small act of self-respect took all his courage, but it had to be done, though his knees felt weak.

He stood at the window for a while, twisting the cane in his hands, then he put down it next to the door where a sliver of light from outside illuminated it.

He made sure the lock was activated on the door, and carefully shut it behind him.

\- - - - - -

Consciousness came back slowly, and Jim wanted nothing more than to sink back into sleep. Every muscle in his body hurt and his head pounded from abuses both physical and chemical. Idly he ran his tongue around his mouth, feeling his sore teeth and the ragged edges on the insides of his cheeks where he'd bitten himself. He could still taste blood.

Images swam up from the well of memory to taunt him.

Had he... had he basically offered to be Oswald's boyfriend? Or at least to be a better boyfriend than.... Edward Nygma?

Damn, it had been a busy night.

He tried to sit up too quickly, and sank back against the pillow again with a groan.

Oswald saved him. Walked over and fucked up those assholes like a boss.

It was horrifying. It was... amazing. Jim knew he shouldn't have been impressed because that was just wrong, but still.

His first instinct when the shooting started was to duck. Dazed and barely coherent, he was hardly in any shape stop Oswald anyway, but the one thing that finally drove him to try was his sudden terror.

Oswald mustn't be seen to commit murder in front of witnesses. It might land him back in Arkham, or Blackgate.

That was it. Not concern for human life, not a desire to uphold the law, just worry for Oswald's well-being.

His throbbing head wouldn't let him pick apart his feelings any further than that. If there was going to be any repairing of their increasingly complicated relationship, it would have to wait until he was less hungover.

At least there was a chance, because somehow Jim convinced him to spend the night, though he was pretty foggy on how that happened. Oswald must have taken pity on him. 

And Oswald had listened to him when he begged him not to kill that sorry son of a bitch. Brought Jim home and did his best to clean him up. That must mean something, or so he hoped.

Very carefully, Jim sat up again, placed one foot after the other on the floor, and sat on the edge of the mattress with his head in his hands.  
  
After sitting there for several minutes feeling his aches and the throbbing of his bruises, he felt strong enough to shuffle out and see if his guest wanted to try getting some breakfast into his stomach. Jim didn't personally feel like ever eating again for the rest of his life, but maybe Oswald would.

He stared at the empty couch and neatly folded blanket, and a hollowness opened inside his chest.

He turned around with no particular destination in mind, and stopped.

Oswald's cane leaned by the door.

He looked at it for a long time, then shuffled into the kitchen.

Before he could figure out what the message was, he needed to get his brain working again. What was it, a damn riddle? Ed rubbing off on Oswald, maybe. 

But first, coffee. And lots of it.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Some brooding and pining the day after. And yet, somehow, they can't figure out how to call each other directly on the phone. LOL I have no explanation for that. Extreme mutual shyness on their parts? It just happened.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't know what it is, but this is the third fic I've updated this month. A new record! On rare occasions I manage to get two updates posted in one month, but usually it takes me a lot longer. Must be the spring weather! Admittedly I've been shipping Gobblepot harder than ever lately, what with Gotham ending, so the stories have been rampaging through my mind.

 

Oswald claimed illness when Ed knocked on his bedroom door the next morning to see why he hadn't come down for breakfast.

It wasn't just the hangover, he just...just could not deal with Ed right now. Couldn't pretend he didn't know about Ed's betrayal.

He asked Ed to have Olga send up some toast, after which he napped, and when he wasn't napping, he brooded. About Jim and his sudden attentions, and Edward.

A little knot lodged in his esophagus that wouldn't leave. He'd learned of Ed's scheming with the Red Hood gang only yesterday. Butch, too, had been involved, but apparently on the opposing side, or at least according to that little snitch Paddy Maguire.

It might have been flattering, that both Butch and Edward sought to curry favor with him, but Oswald was experiencing rather more disagreable emotions.

Butch's meddling was all part of his usual ham-fisted way of dealing with adversity, of trying to achieve his former rank as Oswald's right-hand man. Right on par with his laughable attempt to scare Tabitha and Barb into accepting Oswald's protection.

Butch was no mastermind. He could barely run that measly little drug gang headed by his equally bone-headed nephew, for God's sake, Oswald should have realized what was happening much sooner. The brazen attack on his mother's statue had blinded him to the obvious.

Butch shouldn't have done that, Oswald thought irritably. Still, he was so useful as an enforcer that Oswald could have forgiven him, in time, and welcomed him back into the fold.

That was all but impossible now that Tabitha had gotten her hooks into him again.

But Edward had found out somehow, and...and his reaction was to trick Oswald? How could Ed do that to him? Put Oswald's life at risk just to discredit Butch?

Oswald never would have manipulated Ed that way.

He'd given Ed everything, everything, without any expectations of being paid back. Visited him all those months in Arkham, brought him into his home, given him gainful employment. Provided him with purpose, such as Ed desired for fulfilling this...this riddle obsession.

Oswald opened his heart to him, revealing hopes and fears and dreams he'd never shared with anyone else. He thought they were friends. And in time Oswald realized he was hoping for something more. He...

He fell in love him. He....

The knot in his throat grew, threatening to choke him.

He rolled out from under the comforter and limped to the door, throwing the lock on it, and then, overwhelmed, leaned against it and pressed a hand to his mouth to muffle his sobs.

Slowly the weeping subsided and he sank to the floor, wrapping his arms around his stomach.

Keep your friends close and your enemies closer, went the old saying, and they were words Oswald found easy enough to live by, but this....  
Ed's betrayal cut deep in a way nothing ever had before. Butch, well, he knew not to trust Butch too far anyway, so Oswald supposed Ed's actions had taken him by surprise. Maybe that's why it hurt so much.

Not even when Jim abandoned him to the horrors of Arkham.

Oswald frowned. Why this should be, Oswald wasn't entirely sure. Jim had never pretended to be his friend, and only made alliances with Oswald under duress, when there were no other options available. Maybe his memory of Jim's abandonment was muted by the swirl of chaos that engulfed him as he fought for his sanity against Dr. Strange's treatments.

In any case, he understood why Jim had done it. Oswald wasn't a good man, far from it, and he had manipulated Jim into committing murder. Whatever Jim had done, he'd done it to cut himself off from Oswald's evil, to preserve his own integrity.

Oswald felt a rare twinge of guilt, but he needed to avenge his mother. He had to do it, had to push Jim to participate, there was no other way to get Galavan out of Jim's grip and exact revenge. If he hadn't, then Jim would've taken Galavan into custody again.

And Galavan would have manipulated the system and gotten off scott-free. Again.

Nonetheless, it had pushed Jim too far.

It was the slippery slope Oswald represented, and Oswald wasn't fooling himself. He would have dragged Jim into some other questionable scheme, and then another, and another, until Jim was just another dirty cop in Gotham.

How sad was this? Here he was mourning the loss of a romance with Ed that had never even gotten started, while biting his nails over another man altogether.

He laughed bitterly. He hadn't confided in Ed about everything, now, had he? For that Oswald was grateful. At least Ed didn't know about his pathetic love for Jim Gordon, whom he hated.

That...could be dangerous, now that Oswald thought about it. Ed hated Jim with an intensity and a certain amount of paranoia that Oswald actually found a little worrying.

All that could come out into the open, now that Jim seemed to have unaccountably developed feelings for him.

Oswald chewed his thumbnail, puzzling over it. Was it simply that Jim was no longer with the police department that he was more open to the idea of being with Oswald?

Jim certainly had gotten handsy last night in the bar.

Oswald was glad he'd been there to save Jim from those brutes, but he probably shouldn't have gone back to Jim's place. It was just waking up all kinds of things, old passions and forgotten hopes that were better left locked away.

He regretted leaving the cane behind. What if Jim got it into his head to bring it to the mansion and Ed answered the bell?

And now Oswald was worried about Jim returning it to City Hall, because he could easily run into Ed here, too.

Or even worse. What if Jim didn't come at all?

His heart plummeted. He didn't date, what was he thinking? He didn't know what the hell he was doing, with Jim, with Ed, none of it.

What if Jim woke up relieved Oswald was gone, and now he was stuck with the damn cane?

Pushing to his feet he paced restlessly across the bedroom, his emotions swinging between irritation and despair, obsessing over Jim's motives and wondering if Jim's attentions weren't entirely the result of too much booze after all.

Oswald was a fool, a damn fool, incapable of making rational decisions where Jim was concerned.

Bizarrely, he almost felt like talking to Edward about it, he was so used to confiding in him these days.

He glanced at the clock. Good grief, it was nearly three. What in the hell was taking so long for Jim to get here? Well, maybe he wanted to avoid Edward, too, though it was unlike Jim to shy away from confrontation. Perhaps he was trying to be considerate of Oswald's feelings, and didn't want to make a scene at Oswald's home.

Then again, Jim had taken quite a beating, maybe he didn't feel well enough to visit.

Sudden dread spiked and he stopped his incessant pacing.

Oh, God, what if he really _had_ choked on his own vomit?!

Oswald rushed to the en suite bathroom, dug his jacket out of the laundry hamper, then, when he couldn't find his cell, searched the pockets of his pants, but the phone wasn't there, either.

No, calm down, he was being ridiculous, Jim had been relatively lucid and halfway sober before going to bed last night, that couldn't possibly have happened.

But what if he were more seriously injured than either of them suspected?

“Edward!” he shouted, Going to the bedroom door he wrenched it open and shouted into the hall, louder, “EDWARD! OLGA!”

After the flustered Olga and Edward crowded into the room, opening drawers, searching through his coat, looking under the bed, Ed at last cried, “Oswald, for heaven's sakes, if you need to make a call that badly, why don't you use the landline?”

“Don't bother me with details,” he snapped, and at last he spotted his cell on the windowsill behind the fern. “Ah, there it is. Everyone out. Out!”

Impatiently, Oswald shooed everyone out, practically pushing the bewildered Ed along, shutting the door in his face.

\- - - - -

Jim squeezed open his one good eye at the steady knocking on his apartment door. Slowly he got to his feet and shuffled to it to see if it was anyone who could put a bullet in his head and put him out of his misery.

On the step were three complete strangers, a prim woman in round glasses and two men giving off heavy 'thug' vibes. The man on the steps carried a bucket with some rags hanging over the side in one large hand, and he held a cell phone against his ear with his shoulder. A small vacuum cleaner was folded up under his arm.

The woman was talking, but she had to repeat herself. “I said, how are you feeling, Mr. Gordon? Are you all right?”

The sunlight hurt. Squinting hurt. Hell, even thinking hurt. “M'okay,” Jim mumbled through a jaw that felt like a plank of wood. A painful plank of wood.

The man with the bucket retreated up the stairs, murmuring into the cell. “Yeah, he's here, boss. Answered the door. Looks like shit.”

A terse, muffled response emerged tinnily from the phone.

Jim stared. Was that Oswald on the other end of the line?

The man grimaced, grunted a couple of times, and closed the phone, slipping it into his pocket.

The woman leaned forward to regain his attention. “I'm Dr. Jenkins. May we come in?”

Confusion and obstinance made Jim say, “What if I say no?”

She sighed through her nose. The man next to her lifted an eyebrow and pursed his lips, bemused yet unimpressed, as if he too knew what it was like to be a stubborn bastard and put on a tough act. He held up a huge plastic bag full of boxes. “You want I should put these in the kitchen?”

Not waiting for a response, he pushed past the doctor and over the threshold, somehow capturing Jim's elbow along the way and ushering him inside.

Jim would have protested, but the aromas from the take-out boxes, for that was what they were, hit him full on and made his stomach rumble in spite of himself.

With the doctor at his back and the man holding his elbow, Jim was taken firmly but gently over to the sofa and, while Jim settled onto the cushions, wincing at the fresh agony in his lower back, the man continued on into the kitchen and began transferring the take-out food into the fridge while the other man, who Jim was thinking of as Thug Two, came in after them, shutting the door.

“Go ahead and make yourselves at home,” Jim muttered, as the doctor set her black bag on the coffee table.

“Mr. Gordon, I'm sure you realize this isn't a social call,” she said, putting a stethoscope around her neck. “We have been asked to check on you, offer you assistance, provide any necessary care.”

Jim turned painfully in his seat to see what was going on with Thug Two. The man unfolded the the little vacuum and propped it against the wall, then set the bucket on the floor and was tying a checkered apron around his waist. Jim could now see the bottles in the bucket, one of which was Pine-Sol.

Thug One was opening cupboard doors. “Don't you got any clean bowls?” Shaking his head, he turned on the tap.

Dr. Jenkins rummaged around a little more and straightened up, wielding a thermometer. “Let's start with temperature. With your permission, of course.”

“You got any laundry needs doin', mister?” Thug Two asked, pulling on a pair of yellow rubber gloves. “Or you want I should start in the bathroom?”

“Start what in the bathroom?” Jim said, unable to help himself.

The incongruity of the apron on a man who looked more like he'd be more comfortable shoving a gun in somebody's face was throwing him for a loop.

The man's forehead wrinkled. “The cleaning. Needs it, too,” he added, wrinkling his nose.

“Who'd you say sent you again?” Jim said carefully, tensing and bracing his hands on the sofa. Was this an elaborate ruse? Maybe he'd made a mistake, maybe that wasn't Oswald on the phone. Who had Jim pissed off recently?

He was having trouble believing Oswald could be so generous, to him of all people.

“Mr. Cobblepot, sir,” said Thug One calmly from the sink, now piled with suds. “Relax. We're here to help.”

“So where you want me to start?” Thug Two asked, casting a meaningful look around the apartment.

Thug One glanced over his shoulder and turned off the water. “Better let 'im get used to the idea, Stu. Why doncha start in here?”

The doctor held up the thermometer again. “May I?”

“I...” Shame made his cheeks warm. “Don't need to.”

God, he owed Oswald too much already. He wasn't worth all this effort, especially since he hadn't so much as sent Oswald a care package when the man was stuck in Arkham. Taking the rap for a murder Jim committed.

The doctor regarded him steadily, her brisk manner softening ever so slightly. “Mr. Gordon, if you truly want us to leave, then we've been instructed to obey your wishes. Since you are clearly alive and...” She ran a skeptical eye up and down his slumped form, then shrugged. “...breathing, I suppose we can go. But will you let me examine you first?”

“What's the charge?” He meant it as a joke, but his heart sank. “Does he want his cane back?”

Maybe this was the price, to get his cane back without having to see Jim again. Oswald's final dealings with him, to make sure Jim was all right, but to have his lackeys take the cane back when they left.

To wash his hands of Jim for good.

The doctor tilted her head, frowning. “He didn't say anything about a cane, Mr. Gordon. There's no cost, it's all taken care of.” She wielded the thermometer again with an impatient gesture. “May I?”

Jim nodded. “Okay.”

The man in the kitchen appeared to take Jim's submitting to the exam as sort of a blanket permission to carry on, and turned the tap on again. 

The doctor took his vitals, gave him some real ice packs to replace the bags of frozen peas, and asked some overly personal questions, in his opinion, about his bathroom habits. Or maybe it just seemed overly personal, with Oswald's men hanging around in the kitchen, putting dishes away, wiping down the tiny floor and joking about the lack of a mop, bringing him soup, and vacuuming the thin carpet. Hell, they probably would have spoon-fed him if he asked.

Feeling awkward, he told them to turn on the TV if they wanted, but they declined, and offered to come back tomorrow to see if he changed his mind about the laundry, then they left as quickly as they came.

As Dr. Jenkins snapped her bag shut and began to follow them out, he rubbed the back of his neck and said, “Could you...you tell him...”

The doctor paused with her hand on the doorknob, looking at him expectantly. She'd given some really excellent pain medication and he was feeling very floaty and buzzed, almost as if he was drunk again.

It wasn't quite enough to completely cover the yearning for Oswald, however, or the nagging guilt.

“Tell him thanks,” he mumbled. “And I'll bring the cane as soon as I can.”

If she thought it was an odd message, she didn't let on, but merely nodded.

He wished there had been some sort of demand from Oswald, he thought as he closed the door, feeling an ache in his chest that had nothing to do with his bruises. Some demand for a night out or...or something.

He was hopelessly touched that Oswald went to so much effort to take care of him, and it set off a renewed determination to somehow pay him back.

To make himself worthy of the effort.


End file.
